


Standby to Standby

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: GUNTP Bonus Material [4]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come Marking, Dom/sub Undertones, Frank Castle is a Dumbass, M/M, Teasing, Telepathic Fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: It's so much easier to let someone else be in control.





	Standby to Standby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO INBOX! HE'S INSPIRING, HE'S GOT A WONDERFUL CREATIVE ENERGY, AND HE DESERVES EVERYTHING.
> 
> This fic is part of the Quid Pro Quo set. Time-line wise, it takes place sometime in the summer between Make Good and Settle Up.

Out of all the safe houses Cable’s shown and shared with Frank since they started working together, Frank’s pretty sure he likes this one best. It’s the skyline, he thinks; he likes being able to see the city from this vantage, pulled back to where a man could really convince himself New York is a place of beauty.

It has nothing to do with the quantity of really good sex they’ve had here since summer rolled in, but that definitely doesn’t hurt. The place is air conditioned, sound proofed, quiet enough that when they’re here it feels like the world stops for a little while. In that kind of comfort, who gives a shit if the wall paper is tacky or the rug looks like someone haphazardly dumped water colour paint all over it? 

He knows this is an indulgence he shouldn’t encourage to continue. There are still, in spite of his best efforts, moments where he feels like the best thing he could do is run. The knowledge that Wilson and Cable, working together or separately, would probably be able to track him down if he _ did _ disappear does a little to help soothe him.

No point stressing himself out about exactly when he should have started -- or should start -- running, not when he knew he couldn't hide for long. 

There's a sort of comfort in that, a strange kind of stability for him to hold on to. There's nothing to run from and no point in trying because there's no real way to hide from a man who can read his mind as easy as flipping open a book. 

He doesn't know how to ask for things. It's an on-going issue, his inability to communicate. Even in his own head, it's a struggle. He wants things he knows -- _ knows_, bone deep and intrinsic -- he has no business wanting, and when he thinks of those things something corpse-pale and frightened squirms and denies. What Cable and Wilson give of their own volition should be plenty; it's not for him to ask for more.

And if he's asking, then that makes this whole exchange feel more...

More. It just makes it _ more_, and part of Frank wants it to _ be _more, but he's so deeply, incredibly aware that he can't let himself ever have that. 

Cable likes to make him say things out loud. Admit he wants to suck Cable off, tell him how good it feels when Cable eats his ass, beg to be fucked. Frank's stupid, but he's not dense enough not to pick up the theme there: Cable trying to push him to sort through his own unending mental argument and say what he wants. That it humiliates Frank, embarrasses him enough to burn his whole face red, well that's a bonus they both enjoy.

It's easier when Cable gets tired of waiting for Frank to push through his own mental log-jam and just makes the choice for him. Cable sees his wants and his mental struggle with them, and he doesn't judge. Even when he floods Frank's head with smug amusement, he's not _ judging_. 

Frank trusts Cable's choices. Trusts him not to take advantage and trusts him to make whichever option he picks feel good for them both.

Deeper in the apartment, Frank hears the shower shut off and makes himself sit a little straighter on the couch. There's something about that particular bit of background white noise, the sound of Cable finishing up his shower when they're both still coming down from the live-wire tension of post-fight endorphin-rush. It's a sound that's gotten twisted into the same kind of anticipatory, jittery pleasure as the smell of Maria's perfume; listening to Cable finish up in the shower means the same thing as smelling that perfume used to mean.

Maybe that's the kind of thing that should remind him what a fucker he is. His wife is dead and he's getting excited listening to a man doing his post-shower, pre-fuck primping while remembering the way she used to spray that particular scent on her wrists and smear it on her neck. His dick is half hard and that pale, frightened thing is telling him to go, get out of here, get gone before Cable gets out of the bathroom, before he hears the fucked up way Frank's stupid, twisted up brain has all this knotted up (bad disgusting nasty) wrong.

Except Cable knows. The first time Cable brought Frank to this ugly high-rise apartment with the beautiful view, he'd cracked Frank's brain open like an over-ripe melon and spread the filth of his thoughts between the two of them, examining each nasty-bad-wrong desire and twisted want-need like they were paintings in a gallery he was hoping to buy from. 

Cable knows he's fucked up. Cable even knows most of the _ ways _ he's fucked up, has succinctly verbalized some of it after that beating he gave him in that abandoned rec center. Cable has seen him and isn't yet disgusted enough to call this -- whatever the fuck this _ is _ \-- off.

_ Maybe I _ like _ the fucked up parts_, Cable rumbles in his head, and Frank shivers. He can't pinpoint exactly at what point Cable wormed his way into Frank's head this time -- sometimes it's so subtle Frank's not even sure he's not just being paranoid, other times he shoves his way through Frank's mind so abruptly it feels like a cold breeze skating through an open window straight into his brain. 

The sense of 'company' in his head becomes soothing. Frank doesn't know how Cable does that, makes it feel _ okay _ to have him in his head, seeing him this way. There's no words, no coaxing or soothing, it's just like a switch being flipped; anxiety becomes calm. Cable says nothing, and Frank studiously doesn't wonder how much of his own mental panic was overheard. If he thinks about any of that shit now, Cable _ definitely _will hear.

_ Can't scare me off, Frank_, Cable says, and Frank wants to believe that, wants so badly for it to be true even as something in him growls low and insistent that Cable is an idiot not to run. Frank knows what happens when he gets close to people, knows -- _ come to bed_, Cable offers, invites, insists. _ If you're not going to leave, come to bed. _

He should leave. He should, and if anyone in the world is going to understand, he figures a mind reader will. The sense that the better this thing feels and the longer he lets it go on for, the worse it will be when he inevitably fucks up is thick in his mind all the time these days. Cable has to know, as much time as he spends squatting nonjudgmentally in Frank’s head. 

He should leave.

The city out the window gleams in the dark, lit up like a display. From here, it looks tame, brilliant and lovely, impossible to imagine the brutality of it from such a stunning angle. 

On his own, Frank would never see the city like this. He doesn't have the kind of money to get a place like this, high up with these massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows. If he _ did _have that kind of money, he wouldn't waste it on a living space. This view is an indulgence that he really doesn't need, but the perspective is... well, it's something. To see his city and see it as something beautiful and distant, rather than filthy and from the center of it all; it's like being allowed a moment to appreciate what he's fighting for. 

Up here, there's no screaming, no violence, no chase. The war is on pause for a minute, a reprieve he shouldn't let himself have but knows, realistically, is good for him. Here, the guns are stowed neat and orderly on the wall; Frank has a few items stashed here, some genuinely forgotten in the haste of morning-after, most left with permission because he and Cable keep ending up here anyway.

He's comfortable here, and maybe that's the biggest reason why he should leave. Comfortable doesn't get the job done, and comfortable makes lax, bad habits out of men who should be focused on survival.

_ Bad excuse_, he thinks. The voice sounds like Cable's but it's his own thought and he knows it; he doesn't want to leave because it'll be better in the long run -- and it might be, that might be true -- he wants to leave because he's afraid of what will happen if he stays. Not this time; this time will be as good as any of the times before. He's not even necessarily afraid of the next time, or the time after that; he's afraid of the inevitability of that future. He's afraid of how it's going to feel when all the good comes crashing down around him, when Cable gets hurt or wises up and realizes he's been fucking a mass-murdering monster barely restrained by human sensibility.

Cable is laid out on the bed, stretched out naked with his metal hand folded over his stomach and his flesh arm behind his head. He's a sight, for sure, nice enough to rival the view from the windows in the living room, and Frank feels his heart speed up looking at him. 

There's something in the look Cable gives him that makes Frank slow down and then stop, halfway between the bed and the door. That shiny eye is glowing bright, a smoldering coal, and there's something serious and considering on Cable's face that Frank doesn't know how to interpret. It makes him nervous, whatever it's meant to express; it makes Frank feel like he's managed to fuck this up already.

Comfort strokes over his mind, like hands on a skittish dog, Cable soothing him. Frank wonders if he's listening to the endless, echoing war in Frank's head, or just skimming the emotional surface. Does he know _ why _Frank is waiting to wind up hurting over this, or just that he is?

Does it matter either way?

Metal fingers curve into Cable's skin and Frank lets himself focus on that, focus on how bad he wants to be the one being touched by those hands. Either of them, really. Cable has great hands, strong and rough and competent. 

"I think we should try something new tonight," Cable says, shifting a little to stretch. When his body tenses, the angry rope of scar-tissue ripping along the seam between flesh and metal goes taut and white, highlighting the contrast in texture. 

It’s a sight that refocuses Frank; he wants to go over there and get on his knees, he wants to pin Cable to the bed and lick that zippered seam, worship that body, make him feel good. Some of that clearly translates, either straight from his own harried thoughts or reflected in the shift of his stance or emotion painted on his face.

Cable looks good. God, he always looks good, that's part of the problem; Cable's become a beautiful fixation, something lovely and intoxicating, and Frank's hooked on him like a drug. Every time he thinks he's going to quit, he ends up back here, or somewhere like here, and it's always so good he can't imagine stopping, even knowing that anything that feels that good can't be healthy long-term.

"What did you have in mind?" Frank asks, letting himself fall into a sort of lazy parade rest, hands loose behind his back, bare feet spread to shoulder width. Just resting, watching, waiting for instruction. It's a good mental place to slide into, that place where he's just waiting for Cable's orders. Harder to worry; it's all on what Cable wants. 

That thought gets him a smile so sharp it cuts, hungry. Frank masters the urge to squirm and keeps himself placid as Cable drags his fingers over his own stomach and finally lifts his hand lazily, beckoning Frank forward. 

"Finish undressing, Lieutenant," he orders, Frank can't think of a single reason to even try arguing. 

He pulls off his shirt and drops it to the floor, too stilted by his own eagerness to really be sexy, and then he shoves his trousers down, belt and all, and steps out of them, too. His skin is still a little damp from his own rushed shower, so the fabric drags a little, clinging. Through it all, Cable watches with obvious approval. Frank likes that, likes the way Cable likes looking at him; it makes his face burn, thinking about the way Cable touches him, the care, the roughness made gentle.

Naked, Frank feels his skin prickle in the air conditioned cool, lets himself enjoy the weight of Cable's stare. 

Cable looks at him like he's weighing options, like Frank's an interesting toy he's not sure how to use yet. There's a lot in that look that Frank wants to rail against, a lot of possessive presumption, a lot of dehumanizing. He hates it, he loves it. Par for the fucking course when it comes to Cable; it's the same with the mind-reading shit. Frank craves it and knows it's a danger to get used to, much less to _ want_. 

"We're always looking at what _ you _ want," Cable says finally, and Frank feels something treacherous in him whither at that comment. He doesn't want to think of any of this having been selfish, one sided, and yet there's a part of him, the same part that harps on how unhealthy it is to let himself do this in the first place, has always insisted that it must be. 

It hits him like a slap, the idea that Cable thinks this has been all about him this whole time. That's bullshit and they both know it. He grits his teeth and lifts his head, waiting to hear the rest of the set-up for whatever it is Cable's angling for. 

"I know it's hard for you to admit what you want, so you need me to dig through that messy, screaming hole you call a brain and pick something you like."

This is something Cable's gotten very good at in the months since Frank asked him to kick his ass back in order. Cable finds just the right way to say things to make Frank feel small and mean and horrible; a wretched, filthy thing with only one real use to anyone, and then he finds a way to, suddenly and without much warning, twist that all up and turn it on its head, so Frank's misery just about guts him turning into pleasure.

Knowing that doesn't pull the sting from Cable's dry words, but they put a certain something in the uncomfortable way Frank squirms, still standing at lazy parade rest in the middle of the rug. 

"We do things for you over and over, and I'm starting to think it doesn't matter how many times I make you cum, you're going to be the same stubborn, selfish bitch about it the next time unless I put my foot down. Kick you in line, remind you of your place."

Frank's pulse is heavy in his own ears; he can feel it thumping in his neck, his heart beating fast in his ribs. When Cable gets mean like this, it always turns into some kind of debased but astoundingly good fucking, and Frank thinks the slow build is probably part of why that ends up being so good but goddamn if he doesn't wish Cable would just get to the _ point_.

Because he does love that, he loves being put in his place by this man, loves being broken down small and helpless and used as nothing but a toy. No one else would dare try it, much less _ expect _his compliance. Cable never hesitated to take charge, to step into the role of superior and order Frank into place. 

"Put your hand on your cock," Cable orders, and there's a force in the flare of his eye that grabs Frank's left hand and drags it to his dick, wrapping his fingers tight around it. "Get yourself hard. You're useless to me if you're not hard."

The blush burning on his face undoubtedly darkens his skin from brow to chest, but Frank can't look away from Cable even as he starts obediently jerking himself. He has a glimpse of an idea of what Cable's steering them toward, but it's brief, fleeting, an idea so sharply good it burns and dissipates before he can name it. 

Reclined on the bed, Cable watches him with a heavy gaze, petting his own half-hard cock. He's the absolute picture of indulgence, solid, perfect frame set on expensive pillows in a big bed, touching himself so lazily it's impossible to imagine he has anything else in the world he could be doing. 

When he moves, it's shockingly fluid, easy and limber for a guy who'd looked so relaxed. He spreads his legs and cants his hips, lifting himself to play with his taint, further down and back, teasing his own hole. Frank's breath catches, dick twitching eagerly in his hand, the thought stumbling forward again, too good, too much, before retreating. 

"You going to pretend you don't want to fuck me, Lieutenant?" Cable asks, smirking a little. "Gonna pretend the idea hasn't been hiding at the back of your mind since that first time I sucked you off in the shower?" 

Frank's breath catches again, pulse up, mind hazing. There's a mental place Cable brings him -- Wilson manages it sometimes, but Cable takes him here every time they're alone together, this place where his own worries about the nature of this thing, the fundamental unsustainability of it, dissipate like smoke. In this mental head space, nothing matters but the physical, the moment; like this, Frank is completely present in the moment, more worried about mutual pleasure than what will come after. Like this, he lets himself be guided, _ owned _by Cable, trusts him to make the decisions, trusts him to make them both feel good, use him proper.

Cable usually nudges him there, step by step, slow enough that he can feel himself letting go of the negatives. Sometimes though, he slams him into that place and pins him there, so fast it hits like dizziness, like his own mind has dropped out from under him, leaving him stupid and desperate. 

Even in times like this, smashed into this subservient, desperately hungry space, Cable is in his head, soothing, petting over his mind. There's no words, just a foreign, overwhelming sense of approval, of well-done-very-good. Even at his most satisfied, Frank never feels this proud of himself; he knows well enough it's Cable in his head.

"Hands down," Cable orders, and bites his lip as a finger presses inside. Frank can't breathe, but he _ can _obey, letting himself loose, hands flexing at his side. He wants to touch, he wants --

It's nothing he should want. He's not in control here, he doesn't _ want _to be in control here. When he's in charge, it's too fast and too rough and that's not what either of them are after. The thought puts an ugly sense of uncertainty back in him, the idea that Cable would ask him to take charge dragging him away from that easy sub-space and back towards his own nerves. 

_ One of these days, Frank_, Cable breathes in his mind, leaning back to get a palmful of lube from the pump-bottle on the bedside table, stretching and shifting to make a show of sliding greased fingers into himself, the only thing in the world Frank could possibly want to see right now. 

There's a hazy mental image flickering through Frank's head, distracting him from the perfect reality of Cable fucking himself with two thick, slick fingers. In that mental image, Cable's pinned on his back, Frank's hands holding Cable's down, Frank's face a mask of savage pleasure as he fucks Cable into the bed. It's not an accurate picture of Frank -- he's not that tall, his eyes are muddier, darker, teeth less even, he'd never let his hair get that shaggy and grown out. It's Cable's ideal of him, competent and hungry, all that brutal rage brought to bear, and Frank doesn't think he could ever live up to that, but God, _ God _ does he want to try.

"There you are," Cable breathes, bites his own lip again as he digs his heels into the mattress and arches into his own hand. "My good boy, there you are. Come here."

Frank crosses the room in three steps, legs moving on their own, steadier than he feels. He's so hard it hurts, and the idea of this is so appealing but the reality, climbing into the bed, floods him with uncertainty again. He's not Cable's ideal, he's not supposed to want these things, this has always been the place where Cable takes the options out of his hand in blissful, unspoken faith that he can make them both feel good. Frank doesn't make people feel good, certainly not anymore, if he ever did.

He doesn't want to be in charge right now. He wants to turn off, he wants Cable calling the shots. If he’s in charge, it’ll be...

Another mental press, calm that's not his own pushing through his own doubts as Cable chuckles, metal hand reaching out to grab Frank by the forearm, hauling him in to the space between Cable's spread legs. His human hand comes to rest on his hip, warm and slick, and Frank shivers, cock hard and wet at the tip. 

"You think I'm gonna let you do anything I don't want," Cable asks, holding Frank in place. From the outside it would look like Frank was the one doing the pinning, but the reality is, Cable could throw Frank across the room if he wanted. The assurance of that drops him back a little into that good head space, tension fading in increments. Cable strokes his arm, up and down from elbow to shoulder with that metal hand, and it's so much more comforting than it should be when Frank knows that hand could probably tear his arm right out of socket if Cable wanted. "Good boys are good whether I put them on their leash or not. You're going to be good for me, you're going to fuck me, make _ me _ feel good so I can make _ you _feel good. Got it?"

There's no option but to nod, Frank's head too empty of anything other than desperate horny hunger to find words.

He finds, as with most things, Cable is very good at this. He's deep in it now, concentrated on making Cable happy; that's the thing that matters over anything else, above and beyond any other concern -- make Cable happy. Anything to get that sense of almost helpless approval, that sweeping mental sensation of Cable unable to focus on anything but how good Frank makes him feel.

In that, if in no other way, this is no different from the dozen or so other times they've wound up in bed together. 

Feeling blindly as Cable kisses and bites at his mouth, Frank gets his hand on Cable's dick, pausing long enough to grip him, a few lazy tugs and then down and back. Cable has a freakishly nice dick, given that Frank's really not impressed by the look of dicks to begin with. Always looked like a weakness, utilitarian at the very best, something you could learn to have a great deal of fun with but nothing Frank was ever going to get worked up at the sight of. Maybe it's just the man this one is attached to; Frank figures it can't matter too much. He's hooked on it, doesn't need logic for it.

He wants to suck Cable's dick again. He wants to fuck him, he does, but he also wants Cable's cock in him at some point, and he knows he's not going to get both. Knows because the thought barely uncoils from the wildfire of filth that's lighting up his head before Cable groans, impressing on him the idea -- no words -- that Frank's mouth on him would make him cum too fast.

Gratifying, emboldening, just like the low, pleased noise when he sinks a second finger in and twists his wrist. Cable's body doesn't yeild for him as easily as Wade's, Cable's more compact and much more tense than Wade, who always seems to be half desperate before they even get to the fucking. But Cable's already wet and open from his own hand, and that's good, nice.

Frank finds he likes it, the way Cable grips the back of his neck in a hard metal grip, sinking back against the pillows so he can hitch his hips toward Frank's hand, working himself on Frank's fingers. Wade's a quick trick, slutty in that he'll go down on Frank before Frank can so much as give him a proper hello some nights. With Cable, it's a different sort of slutty, slutty like he knows exactly what he wants and Frank is really just a peripheral, a favourite toy he knows just how to use to get himself there. 

Two fingers is going to have to be enough at this point. Frank wants to do more -- he could do this all night, and Cable's squirming, clutching reaction to the thought doesn't exactly suggest that he's opposed, but Frank also desperately needs something around his dick and Cable refuses to touch him. 

He yanks Cable down a little, getting him laid out the way he wants. Cable's hair is still wet from his shower; it halos his head in silvery clumps, the tight shave on the sides grown out from whatever stupid hipster style he'd been going for when they'd first met. The effect with the top still being significantly longer is a sort of wild stylelessness, like he's between any attempt at a definite look. He needs a haircut and someone to tell him the cape thing looks stupid no matter how dramatically he knocks it over one shoulder, a wild thought that only sticks because Cable laughs at it before it fully disappears, and that laugh becomes this pleased, drawn out vowel-noise as Frank pushes his cock into him. 

It's a sound Frank thinks will help carry him through a lot of lonely nights in the future, the sound of a man getting exactly what he wants and still pleasantly surprised by how good it feels. 

The angle isn't Frank's preferred. He was never a fan of missionary before he started letting Cable fuck him; harder to find that angle that made whoever he was with gasp and squirm. Can't get as deep, and his lower back starts to ache a lot faster these days too, but the way Cable cranes his head back and moans at the headboard goes a long way toward making up for the position's short comings. When Frank strokes his hands along the backs of Cable's thighs, gripping the underside of his knees, Cable nods as Frank helps lift him, curling his spine away from the mattress easily. 

Better, that's better. Cable doesn't compress into a damn near boneless ball like Wilson does; Frank can't push those knees into his shoulders, fold him like a wallet and fuck him until he's screaming with it. It's good though; Cable is hot and wet and so tight, clinging to Frank with every withdraw and sucking him in with every thrust. Frank can feel Cable's mind against his own, hazy and unfocused in a way it's never been before, stroking over s thoughts with eager, passive attention.

"Slow, slow," Cable orders, breathless, and Frank makes himself bite down against the urge to ignore the command. He's being good. Make Cable feel good, that's the mission now, the only mission that matters. 

He can feel Cable forcing himself to focus, the static in his own head slowly coalescing into something like coherence. It's too good; making Cable so muzzy-headed that he needs a pause to keep giving orders is so good, it feels like all that pleasure is sinking in so deep, deep enough to curl around his bones, so good it threatens to tear him apart, no room for such a massive sensation. A moment to catch his own breath and watch Cable get his own head back in order is... something.

Like a tide receding, necessary and pleasant, a relief from the flood. 

Beneath him, Cable smiles. It's not the smug smile Frank half expects, not the 'I knew you'd like this' smile or the 'You'll want this all the time now' smile. It's just a smile, like this is almost as surprising to Cable as it is to Frank.

"Did know you'd like it, though," Cable breathes, licking his own lips, eyes rolling closed when he works his own hips up into Frank's, swiveling slowly to some end. "Feel so good, Frank... fuck, so big..."

Frank's face is burning, his arms shaking as he focuses on holding himself and letting Cable control the motion, letting him use Frank for his pleasure. Sweat rolls from his brow, along the length of his crooked nose, and he wants to move, he wants to push in deep again and find that spot that makes Cable's brain go all hazy and unclear, and it takes every bit of self control not to.

"Gonna be you after this all the time," Frank rumbles, surprised to feel Cable seize with a little shock at the words. He doesn't know what's caught him off guard, Frank finding the presence of mind to talk or the words themselves, or the idea, maybe, that Frank is willing to do this whenever Cable wants. 

A terrifying sort of realization, there -- that he'd do just about anything, anytime, if Cable asked. He'd do a good number of things for Cable he wouldn't do for most people, because Cable can see in his head and Cable knows how to ask for them without making the choice feel inaccessible. Cable leads him, even like this, Cable threads a rope of want around his neck and guides him to these places where they both can go stupid with feel-good bullshit. 

There's a moment, brief but unsettling, where something violent and ugly rears up in Frank. It's very like the savage, slavering dog he lets rule when he's in a real fight, the beast that sees anything he can pick up as a weapon, sees any other person as a threat and a series of weak spots to injure.

The dog in him wants to snap, pin Cable down and fuck him into the mattress -- finish this hard and fast and against everything Cable's praised him for, make it hurt, make him hate it -- and then run from here. Call it tactical retreat, call it turning tail, call it cutting ties, it doesn't matter. 

Cable under him can hear that dog, can see the way Frank's frozen up. Frank's fingers are curled so hard against the backs of Cable's knees that it hurts, and if it hurts him it must be hurting Cable too, and Frank's breath tries to come back all in a rush at that, hyperventilating in guilt and upset over getting lost in his own stupid head, while the dog's still snarling and he's still tense and too still.

And there's a look Cable gets, a look Frank hates seeing on his face because it's so soft, so understanding; no one should look at him like that, least of all someone who can see how he's struggling not to turn this into something violent and horrible. It's that face that makes Frank force himself to get a grip, and no sooner does he shift his hands, loosening the clutch of his fingers to something gentler, reasonable, than Cable's purring praise again. His hands, broad and rough and warm, even the metal one, pet over Frank's face and his shoulders, and Cable drowns the noise in his head with a sense of praise and pleasure so good Frank seizes with it, whole body arching and hitching forward, driving himself fully into Cable again so they both moan.

It's fucked up. All of this, everything they do together is shades of fucked up, the way Cable burrows into his head and watches the breakdowns in real time, mitigates them and then crows praise when Frank overcomes it. He deserves better than a man who struggles not to turn a good fuck into something else, even if the struggle lasts less than a minute real-time. He deserves someone who won't leave fingerprint bruises on his legs, who will fuck him or be fucked without any of this extra coaxing bullshit.

"Like the bruises," Cable says, something dragging Frank forward again, making him snap his hips hard into Cable again, setting a slow, hard rhythm. "Like your bullshit, Lieutenant. You really think I like your pussy so well I'd been chasing it if I didn't like all the rest?"

"Shut up," Frank growls, face hot again, sweat dripping from his nose to splash on Cable's chest. "Shut up, you don't got any --"

"No," Cable laughs, and his hands are so solid on Frank's shoulders now, thumbs rubbing at his collarbones. "No, Frank, that's not how good boys talk, is it? Said you were gonna be good for me, didn't you."

He did, he did, but it's so much more than he'd expected. It's not like fucking Wilson, who makes everything so fucking simple by virtue of stripping away every modicum of sense to a situation. Wilson makes fucking almost an inevitability; what he wants bad enough, he'll chase to the end of the earth, and he refuses to die, so you might as well just give him what he wants.

Cable gives him choices. Cable works to make him _ want_. Cable, fitting so perfectly into that stronger, smarter, better role of a superior, holds his hand and tells him they can do anything he likes as long as he's good, as long as he obeys, as long as he follows the rules.

It's obscene. It's perfect and obscene and Frank's head is swimming even as his body is singing with how good it feels every time Cable hitches and arches against him. This feels good. It feels good, and it's happening, and Frank _ chose _to let it happen, so there's no point in going back on it.

Like a rubber band stretched beyond its limit, Frank's mental struggle snaps into nothing, stress translating itself only as relief, so he's sinking into Cable, head bowed, moaning, focused only on the rhythm Cable's set. Feel good, chase it, that's what he's for right now. Anything Cable wants.

"There's a good boy," Cable chuckles. He's sweaty too, and breathless. The scars on his face, especially the ones around his eyes, stand out sharply when he's red-faced like this. "Working so hard for me, so good.”

They stay like that for a good while, Frank holding himself where Cable wants and Cable rocking against him, working himself to obvious distraction. Even if his mental connection weren't going fuzzy 'round the edges, Frank would know how this was affecting him; it's writ plain on his face. His mouth open, tongue fat behind his teeth as his eyes squeeze shut; he's the picture of self-indulgent decadence. 

It's also very clear that Cable is edging himself, edging them both, dragging what could be hard and fast and satisfactory to them both out into something slow and easy and overwhelmingly not enough. Frank's breath is trapped in his throat, working out of him in a weak, rhythmic groan. He sounds like he's the one getting fucked, except when roles are reversed Cable never lets him get away with holding his voice back like this. 

And then, for no reason Frank can think of at all, Cable stops entirely. He lays back against the pillow, sweaty and red faced, pupil of his normal eye blown wide and the light in the other flickering manically. His hands on Frank are hard now, holding him, keeping them both just where they are as he once again struggles to pull himself together.

It's a goddamn sight, one Frank would be more inclined to appreciate in detail if he weren't so close and so incredibly desperate. His lips are peeled back from his teeth, breathing ragged. He wants to take control of the rhythm, he wants to fuck Cable hard and fast, the way Cable fucks him when he's done playing and ready for them to both cum. 

He also desperately doesn't want to disappoint Cable. 

"Wade told me a secret about you," Cable breathes at last, and _ now _ his smile is smug, the same shit-eating variety it gets to be when he's nearly got Frank ready to beg, shameless and slutty and desperate. It's a gotcha sort of look, like he's backed Frank into one last corner, like Frank has no options left but to give Cable what he wants and is holding out now out of pure, shocking stubbornness. "Roll over, go on, get on your back for me."

Groaning, Frank stays just where he's at for a moment, but the fact of the matter is, he's pretty sure he knows where Cable's going with this, and he wants it. He wants his prize, he wants to see Cable cum on his cock and if that means stopping long enough to change positions, he's happy enough to do so. The only pause is the time it takes him to gather his will-power, make himself pull out of the wet, tight grip Cable's got on him, biting back a moan that would only sound pornographic if he allowed it to leave him.

Cable doesn't make him wait. Frank collapses onto his back, biting his lip and clutching the top sheet to keep his grip on something other than his dick, and then Cable's straddling him, on hand on his chest, the other holding Frank steady so he can sit slowly down on him. 

Like this, there's no option for Cable but to take him all the way, deep as he can possibly go, and Frank likes the look on Cable's face as he settles there. His jaw is hanging, his head angled back for a moment, the hand on Frank's chest curved tight to the meat of him. 

Head angled back, Cable mouths something that looks like a prayer at the ceiling, squirming in place, getting himself acclimated. When he rocks up, Frank's hands twist in the sheets and then, almost against his will, grip hard to those hips, helping steady him. Not guide; he's careful not to grab for any extra control, just wants to touch. 

Cable has this way of fucking him sometimes, holding him rough and using him hard and fast like he's got to exhaust Frank into staying. Like Frank's going to grab his clothes and run the second they both get their orgasm if Cable doesn't fuck him stupid. It's always so much effort, desperate, almost mean in a way that really works for Frank.

"You really do like that, huh," Cable breathes, hand on his cock working fast and rough, hardly matching the determined, steady, quick ride he's set. For every rise and fall, thighs quivering and stomach tensing, his hand pulls three or four full strokes. With that metal hand it's an intoxicating thing to watch, almost dangerous, Cable panting and groaning as he works. "You gonna make me cum, Frank? You want my cum on you?"

He does, wants it so bad he’d do just about anything for it. More than his own orgasm, even. He wants, _ needs _, to see Cable cum, lose his fucking mind on Frank's lap. He needs to feel that body tense on him, clench around him, needs to hear what it sounds like when Cable cums this way.

Somewhere in that thought, Cable makes an awful, gutted noise, clutching so hard to his own dick that Frank _ knows _ it must hurt. Probably hurts on purpose, holding himself back, because Frank can feel that it's the thought of Cable being forced to cum from penetration alone that's really doing it for him. It clicks then, like the whole world sliding into sudden, perfect alignment, that Cable's really into that too. Just as Frank wants sometimes -- often -- to turn off and have someone take everything off him for a minute, so does Cable. 

Hell, he's damn near been begging for it all night.

Without instruction or much thought, he shifts his hand from Cable’s hip, wrapping it around the warm metal grip and squeezing, forcing his rhythm to slow. The fact that he couldn’t force Cable to do jackshit if Cable didn’t want it doesn’t matter; Cable _ does _ want, and Frank wants what Cable wants, so he’s going to make sure they do this right.

"What I want," he growls, curling his lip as he forces Cable's hand off his dick, "is for you to cut the shit and ride me proper."

Good delivery, not as hesitant as he feels, but they both know he's testing the water here. He's always put Cable in charge and Cable, without complaint, has always taken it. Frank can see now where there might have been some brand of sincerity in Cable's earlier comment about always doing what Frank wanted -- and it wasn't so much that he minded, Frank thinks, rather that there was a whole other world of possibilities that were shut with Frank making it necessary for Cable to take that role of superior.

Frank can't read minds, but with Cable broadcasting the way he is, losing his grip the way he is while Frank's inside him, Frank's able to see and feel a good deal more than he thinks Cable usually allows. Some of this is guesswork, so Frank isn't going to force the issue if he's somehow reading this wrong, but he doesn't think he is. 

"Lean back, hands on my thighs," Frank says, and Cable pauses, so Frank takes hold of his hips and rocks solidly up into him. His back and his hips are going to kill later, but it hardly matters, watching Cable's mouth drop open in a silent moan, back arching and hands gripping hard to Frank's thighs. "You wanna tease like a slut, then I'll fuck you like one, but that means you don't touch yourself. _ I _ touch you, got it?"

Nodding dumbly, rocking up on his knees in time with Frank rolling his hips, Cable acquiesces beautifully. He's not got the flexibility or the balance Wade has, and Frank hesitates to fuck him as roughly as he would Wade, but each thrust hazes and blurs the presence in his head, Cable's voice a thin and pleading echo in Frank's skull. 

_ Please Frank yes like that like that more more harder like that just there there there Frank please _

"Touch me," he says out loud, and Frank squeezes his hips and drags him down hard on his cock, gratified by the ragged groan that tears out of his throat. Cable is always hot, but Frank's never had him out of control, before, never been the one setting the pace or making the rules, and now he's got him wild on him, curved back so pretty with his dick drooling, dripping onto Frank's stomach. "Frank, touch me, make me cum, please, let me cum, I'm so close, so..."

Frank's close. His thinks, judging by the jittery flashes of pleasure lancing through him with even the subtlest motion either of them manages, Cable is as well. He thinks he could probably _ actually _ make Cable cum without putting a hand on his dick at all, which isn't a trick you can make work every time. 

He clutches on harder to those hips, enjoys the way the flesh has some give to it, softer than it used to be. "Hold it," he snarls, snapping his hips up roughly, moving Cable how he wants him again, feeling the shudder in his arms, the tension in his hands, watching that perfect cock of his flow a steady slick of clear precum now. This close to the end, Frank's never been in position to really appreciate it, but Cable's cock is beautifully flushed, the head swollen, the scar tissue on either side of that thread of metal standing out stark white against the rest. 

Something falls to the floor with a clatter, something heavy knocks against the wall, and Cable gasps and blushes and he pulls one hand off Frank to cover his face, embarrassed. It takes a moment before Frank realizes a good portion of the bedroom decor has gotten taller.

It's floating.

Cable's gasping, moaning with every motion, and Frank hears the lamp on the bedside table roll onto the floor, catches the table from the corner of his eye floating upwards. their clothes, discarded on the floor, are now hovering at various heights in midair, and Cable's not covering his face now, he’s petting over his bared throat, teasing the line between metal and flesh, dragging his fingers down to his chest, mindless now, riding Frank as much as Frank's fucking him, and it's something.

It's really, really something.

"Nuh-uh, Summers," Frank snaps, and he seizes Cable's hand, knocks it away from his goal. "I told you, _ I’m _ fucking you. Sluts don't set the pace, you get what I give."

Seeing Cable wild like this, the bright glow of his left eye flickering and imprecise now, Frank takes hold of that dripping cock himself, watching as Cable seizes up and cries out. He stripes his cock hard and fast, squeezing against the line of metal with each pass because when he does that the noise Cable is projecting into Frank's head roars into a cacophony, too much, too good every time. It's a beautiful thing to watch, and Frank barely gets to enjoy it because a handful of strokes in Cable's mind against Frank's whites out, his dick twitches hot in Frank's grip, and he cums hard enough to paint Frank's chest with it, viscous ropes of ejaculate glistening in the hair of Frank's chest.

There's nothing for it at that; Frank drives up once more into Cable's body even as Cable is rocking down harder on him, and he cums buried deep. 

They're both coming back to themselves, sinking back into their skins after cumming hard enough that Frank at least is a little dizzy with it, when the room settles back roughly in order. Gravity reasserts itself, Cable exhaling a shaky little sigh of effort as everything is set carefully, quietly back onto the floor. 

Cable rocks himself in place, slowing to stillness rather than just stopping, like he has to wind down, and that big flesh hand settles on Frank's chest working Cable's spend into Frank's skin like some fucked up lotion. The unfocused, over-stimulated way Cable's looking down at him makes Frank wish he could get hard again this fast, but even the gentle motions Cable's working them with feels like too much.

"Knew you had it in you," Cable breathes, sighing something content and deeply pleased, bordering on smug as he disengages their bodies and ends up sprawled over Frank, face pressing against his shoulder. "Now it's in me."

Frank's heard that one before -- a couple times, as it's one of Wilson's favourite lines after he baits Frank into pinning him and fucking him rough -- but he still huffs something close to a laugh. He figures Cable worked hard enough to earn it, and anyway, he's not exactly wrong with that observation.

Lips find his throat, then teeth, and he lets his head fall back with an easy groan, Cable's bulk shifting to a more comfortable, long term overlap of their bodies while he digs his teeth into Frank's neck. The fuzzy, fucked out presence in his head is slowly sharpening, gathering back into itself, putting boundaries between them again. Eventually, a careful, wordless sense of questioning presses at him, nothing urgent, just there. Cable assessing, Cable making sure he hasn't overstepped.

Hellaciously considerate for a guy who just got fucked to distraction.

"Hope you know you don't got room for anymore lectures about asking for what I want," Frank grumbles, carding his fingers through the thick, sweaty gray hair, failing to keep himself from smiling when Cable laughs against his throat. "How long you been waiting for me to fuck you, Summers?"

"Better question," Cable says, leaning back and up until Frank catches his lips, shifting to melt against him so they can kiss slow and lazy for a minute. He poses his question with bland affection as if there'd been no pause at all when he finally pulls back to let Frank breathe. "How many more times do I need to get you to fuck me before you call me Nathan?"

It shouldn't be such an intimate sounding question, but Frank feels himself colour anyway, the realization that he's slipped out of calling Cable by his code name a couple times now. Names were never made off limits between them, and Frank has always been 'Frank' or 'Castle' to Cable, when he's not trying to get into Frank's pants at least. 

Then Frank becomes 'Lieutenant' and 'good boy', but that's not exactly the same thing either.

Frank doesn't want to worry about that, about boundaries, about the way they keep letting themselves get too close. He's still lit up, all over, with the feel-good afterglow of orgasm, too fucked-out for the nastier part of him to snarl about how he should end this thing, how he should run and never let it happen again.

He feels good and he doesn't want to ruin it thinking about bullshit complications, most of which are self-imposed because no one else in this mess is willing to be smart about it. He wants to be stupid, just for a little while.

And he supposes Cable -- Summers -- _ Nathan _ \-- can sense all that, because he sighs and kisses Frank again, and Frank can feel a sort of resignation in the careful withdrawing of mental touch. Always willing to take what he can get, and how long has he been making the most of Frank's hangups instead of just saying outright he wants something different? 

"Nope, not dodgin' it that easy, Summers," Frank growls, enjoying the way Cable presses his hand between them as he leans back, the way he drags those fingers through the sweaty and cum-sticky hair, working the mess into Frank's skin. "I wanna know how long I coulda been fucking you. How much time I gotta make up for."

"Why," Cable asks, brows all drawn up. "You'll need more than a night, I can guarantee you that much."

Frank laughs as he rolls them, enjoying the momentary look of genuine shock on that square face, a rare moment of genuinely catching Cable off guard as he pins him against the pillows. "How 'bout the weekend then?" he asks, and lets Cable kiss the rest of the laughter out of his mouth.

_ It's Wednesday night, Frank, _Cable informs him, hands closed neatly at the back of his neck, keeping him close. 

_ Long weekend _, Frank thinks back in reply, and the brilliant sense of surprise in Cable's laughter is honestly worth the world.


End file.
